


Windows

by ObsceneSins



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drugs, Evil Jim, Jim does this for no reason, Jim is pure evil, M/M, Rape, Syringe, Trigger Warnings, Violence, different POV, different take, explicit - Freeform, one chapter, seriously, this is awful, warnings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-10
Updated: 2018-01-10
Packaged: 2019-03-03 02:45:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13331838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ObsceneSins/pseuds/ObsceneSins
Summary: Windows were a discreet way to watch the world if you paid enough attention.Sebastian knew the world better from behind a pane of glass.





	Windows

**Author's Note:**

> I’m trying to post more of my writing, by starting over, refreshing my thoughts and stories and getting rid of the ones I no longer wish to work on. 
> 
> This is a small, very fucked up short story in the meantime.
> 
>  
> 
> Tags are there for your final warnings before you proceed. Don’t read this if you don’t agree with it.
> 
>  
> 
> Sarah, this is for you.
> 
> With all my love,   
>  M

Windows were a discreet way to watch the world if you paid enough attention.

Sebastian knew the world better from behind a pane of glass. He liked to watch and observe the people without them doing the same. A tinted car window was best, or even a second story window provided a nice view.

Sebastian shifted slightly. This wasn’t a particularly important stake out, but nonetheless, he was still doing his job. His legs ached and his shoulder was bugging him, but he stayed still.

He glanced down at his L96. It was his most reliable one, its scratches and wear showing his use over the years since he’d been discharged. He’d contemplated bringing something else, but Jim insisted on something with an easier set up and put away.

He shifted and glanced through his scope. 

No need to adjust.  It’d been in the same spot since he set it up.

At least his equipment was still reliable enough.

He glanced down at the street below him, and watched the passerby’s. To Sebastian, they looked like ants. That’s all they were. Insects of the world, never knowing what was really happening in the world around them, just little bugs.  People like Moriarty and the Iceman were the ones running the terrarium of the world, deciding when to feed, when to kill. Sebastian was just the spectator to it all. He was just the one to clean out the cage when told.

A Caucasian woman in a brightly knitted hat was pushing a pram. An Asian man in a tie and button up was chatting on a cellphone as he climbed into a taxi.  A light-skinned woman with pink hair was eating a sandwich on the bench.

A terrarium of people who would never know the real world.

Sebastian stiffened and sat up straight as he saw a black tinted car slowly pull to a stop in front of 221. He didn’t even have to watch to know James was in the car, but he still did, watching him step from the car, and adjust his suit.

 Sebastian wondered how a man could do things so gracefully without even trying.

James turned and surveyed the area, looking disinterested. The street had cleared; even the pink haired woman had left: Moriarty gave a malicious smirk. It was a small thing, but Seb had seen what Moriarty would do, _could_ do.

That smirk sent a small chill down his spine. Ironically.

He killed people for a living. He’d seen war. He’d been mauled by a tiger.

But Moriarty’s smirk was the tick that made his weary bones feel cold.

Moriarty glanced up at him and smiled, not one of pleasure or happiness, but a shady one. Sebastian watched him disappear behind 221’s door, and he sighed, adjusting once more, and watched through his scope.

Sherlock was already inside. He had been for some time, but he hadn’t paid much attention to what the Detective had been doing. James had basically instructed him to only tell him if Sherlock had left the premises.

He watched as James descended the staircase and stepped into the flat. He and Sherlock seemed to share a few words, and Sherlock seemed perplexed as James sat, facing away from the window, and he glanced out of the flat’s windows, before settling into the opposite chair. Sebastian watched them share tea. The scene was intense and he kept his finger on the trigger. He removed it as he saw Jim take out his phone. He didn’t accidentally want to pull the trigger when he jumped from Jim’s text.

He glanced down at his open phone on the sill in front of him. Jim’s message popped up.

**Just watch, don’t move**

Seb frowned and went back to his scope. He took his hand off the trigger altogether.

It was a blur as Sherlock and Moriarty both stood, and James rushes him against the wall. He can’t hear anything, but he is sure there is a clatter as Sherlock gets slammed into the wall and Moriarty manages to knock a few coats off the rack.

Some words are being said, but Sebastian cannot see what is being said. James has his back to him. But Sherlock is glaring as James has his throat around Sherlock’s throat. His cheeks are turning pink.

Sebastian fidgets slightly, knowing he shouldn’t, but cannot help himself as he slowly puts his finger back over the trigger and holds it there. James and Sherlock fight, Sherlock throws him back and James falls onto the coffee table, but he’s back up on his feet quickly as Sherlock swings, James ducks, punches his gut, and drives a syringe into his neck. Sherlock clutches his waist, and tries to stand, staggering back. Sherlock’s face is a mixture of panic and confusion as he stumbles back, and Sebastian watches him smack the floor.

James is heaving, then turns and glances out the window, directly at him. He is smirking.

Sebastian doesn’t understand what he is up to, but he remains still, removing his finger from the trigger once more. The butt of the rifle is making his shoulder ache, but he doesn’t move.

Sebastian watches as Jim shuts the doors of 221 B and proceeds to lock them. His back is to Sebastian as he removes his jacket, hangs it up, and rolls up the sleeves on his shirt. He is unsure what James is saying as he turns back around, but he knows by the way his jaw barely moves that he is just talking to himself.

James walks over to Sherlock, who has been lying on the floor where he landed, barely moving. Jim squats and Sebastian watches as he begins to struggle to pick Sherlock up, heaving his body over to the couch. Sebastian gives a chuckle.

“I thought you didn’t like getting your hands dirty, Jim.” He says to himself. He hardly ever sees Jim doing leg work, but he doesn’t complain. His weary bones sometimes can’t handle a heavy fight.

He’s still confused, though. What was the point in him being here if Jim didn’t need him? He stayed still, his shoulder screeching at him.

He’d sat still for longer periods. He would be okay.

He went stock still as James began removing Sherlock’s clothes, his thin fingers unbuttoning them in a sensual manner. He cannot hear them, but James is talking to Sherlock, his lips moving slowly, a smirk on his lips as he slips the shirt off of Sherlock, and sets it on the couch.

Then his hands reach for Sherlock’s belt.

Sebastian feels like he can’t move. He can’t look away, but he doesn’t want to watch. He doesn’t want to know where this is going.

He stays still.

Sherlock’s head lolls back on the armrest of the couch, his head upside down, facing Sebastian now. Sebastian peers at him through his scope, the detective seemed dazed, his eyes glossy.

Jim manages to get Sherlock’s trouser s off, and yanks them down; leaving them wrapped around one ankle. Jim seems eager now that he’s stripped, and he glances back at Sebastian.

He feels cold.

Jim unzips his fly, and Sebastian recoils from the scope, suddenly realizing he is breathing heavy.

What the fuck is Jim doing? What the fuck is this?

Sebastian has fucking _killed people._ Gotten rid of them as easily as crushing a cockroach underfoot.

He has kidnapped _children._ _Women._ He’s killed grown men, he’s tied them to chairs and tortured them until they bled and pissed themselves in fear.

His stomach churns, and he inhales shakily, before going back to his scope. His heart beats heavily.

Jim is half-hard as he kneels on the couch. His cock is in his hand, and he is slowly rubbing it in his palm. Sherlock lolls his head around, almost as if he saying “no, no” over and over.

His mouth is dry.

He hears nothing but he can imagine Sherlock’s whine as Jim leans forward, grabs a fistful of Sherlock’s hair, and forces his head up. He holds it in place as he slips his cock into Sherlock’s mouth and begins sliding back and forth.

Sebastian feels sick as Jim’s mouth hangs open slightly, and he breaths heavily, forcing Sherlock’s head back and forth, his cock disappearing down into Sherlock’s throat and back out. After a minute of this, Sherlock seems to will himself enough to yank his head back, his eyes shut tight. He slams his head back onto the armrest of the couch, and breaths heavily, his bare chest heaving. He makes a face, most likely gagging, and Sebastian tries to not pay attention to the glistening saliva around his chin.

Jim is fully hard now and he is saying something to Sherlock, but Sebastian wasn’t hired for his ability to read lips.

Sherlock lolls his head back and forth once more, and Jim grabs his ankle, lifting his leg up.

Sebastian can’t watch.

He does, because Jim is staring at him through the window. He knows Jim can’t see him, but he is afraid Jim would know if he didn’t.

“Bloody Hell.”

Jim brings a hand to his mouth, and Sebastian can imagine he is spitting into it. He strokes himself, and then adjusts on the couch. It is a cramped space, but Jim yanks Sherlock’s legs up higher.

The drugged detective shakes, and slowly raises a hand, but Jim grabs it and holds his arm down.

Jim lowers his hips (he is surprisingly shorter than most people think) and Sebastian’s heart races. He seems to push into Sherlock, because the drugged detective shakes his head, his face twists in pain. He can imagine the cry of pain; he’s heard it enough before.

Jim is fucking him, his hips moving back and forth, and Sherlock continues breathing heavily, his eyes scrunching up, opening, and scrunching back up. He finally closes his eyes, his brows furrowed, his mouth gritted in pain.

He sees tears rolling down the sides of his face, into his hairline, as Jim leans over him, and mercilessly fucks him. He can tell it is hard, Sherlock is repeatedly moving, just slightly. He watches as Sherlock moves back and forth against the couch, crying out.

Jim is holding him down, whispering into his ear.

He knows the words must be cruel and harsh.

It almost seemed surreal.

He was suddenly glad he couldn’t hear any of it.

Jim leans back up and grabs Sherlock’s hips, no doubt to fuck him harder. Sherlock is shaking, and Jim’s face is full of pleasure. It’s not even sexual pleasure.

Sebastian has seen this face many times before, and most of the time it was the one Jim had when he wrapped a plastic bag around someone’s head and suffocated them to death, or when he shoved bamboo splinters under one’s fingernails.

He breathed heavily, and pulled away once again.

He felt like his lunch would come back up. He went back to the scope.

Jim had stopped for the time being, and was forcing Sherlock up, off the couch. The detective seemed barely able to stand, but he tried. He tried to pull away, tried to run, Sebastian almost wanted him to. He started falling, and Jim hoisted him up from behind, keeping him stable as he turned him back around, and laid him partially against the couch once more, his torso pressed against the arm on the other end. It looked painfully uncomfortable and Sherlock’s head lolled forward.

Jim stepped behind him, positioned once more, and then yanked his head up so Sebastian could see it fully.

Sherlock was shaking once more, jutting forward every few seconds as Jim began to fuck him.

Sherlock’s face was wet with tears as his glossy eyes ran, his nose wet. He sobbed, his mouth hanging open. He kept trying to put his head down, or push it into the side of the couch, but Jim’s hand in his hair held him there. Sherlock strained against the couch arm, but couldn’t move as Jim held him in place.

Jim was going faster; he didn’t even seem to be keeping rhythm as this point. Sebastian didn’t want to watch this any longer.

He turned away, his eye straining, and he shut both for a moment. His chest was ramming with his heart beat, and he sat still, his body shaking slightly from holding the same position for so long. He wanted to get up and leave, to walk away from this scene.

He had done some fucked up things in his life.

But this was just, just…just so _wrong._

His eyes were wet from being shut, and he went back to the scope once more.

He witnessed the last few moments of this, as Jim seemed to stop, his hips shook and he stilled for a moment, breathing heavily.

It was almost relieving to watch James finish, pull out, and disappear out of view for a moment. He came back, after tucking himself back into his trousers. Sherlock hadn’t moved a muscle, but he could see the thin, pale skin as it shook slightly. Sherlock was sobbing, his head hanging down, so his face was out of sight.

Jim pushed Sherlock so he was sitting on the couch, naked. He seemed shocked, or perhaps the drug was still coursing through his system. He was sitting up, though, so Sebastian figured whatever the fuck Jim had injected him with was nearly done running its course.

Jim slowly redressed Sherlock, pulling his trousers back on, adjusting his belt, buttoning his shirt, rolling the sleeves.

He turned and put his coat back on, standing still for a moment.

Sebastian watched as he disappeared into the kitchen, his figure going dark. Sherlock’s face was wet with snot and tears, but he didn’t move, and Sebastian watched as they dripped.

Jim returned with hands full, a hand towel in one and an apple in the other. He carefully wiped Sherlock’s face, but even this didn’t seem to faze the detective. He recoiled a bit as Jim ran a hand down his cheek.

Jim sat across from Sherlock on the coffee table, speaking to him quietly. Sebastian watched as he took a bite of the apple, and then began carving it with his pocket knife as he spoke. After a moment, he stopped. Neither spoke or moved.

Then, Jim stood, left the apple on the coffee table, unlocked the door and left.

Sebastian pulled away from the scope and gave a heavy exhale.

His phone pinged, making him jump. He lowered his head in shame, suddenly glad his finger had been taken off the trigger.

He read the text, hoping it wasn’t something worse than what he had been forced to witness.

**Follow original instructions.**

He nodded to himself.

He was fast about packing up and moving out, same as his setting up.

He seemed to move twice as fast today. It still felt too slow.

He moved fast, ignoring the ache in his body, in his bones as he left the empty apartment, packing up, putting away everything into his discrete briefcase.

The descent on the staircase made him feel heavy. He wanted a vacation. He would demand one later, but for now he felt like he needed a long, burning shower.

He stood across the street and waited until Dr. John Watson showed up after hurrying home from Jim’s final court hearing, running into 221 B.

He glanced up towards the flat’s window, seeing Sherlock playing his violin, the beautiful music filling the street, its sorrow strings making Seb cringe.

He sighed.

“Godspeed.” He muttered to himself, nodding up at the unaware detective. What else could he do?

He turned and began walking off, walking off in the direction of Oxford street. Once the population on the sidewalks became denser, he was instructed to get into a taxi.

Seb sighed and glanced up at the CCTV that watched him, he knew they were watching him, and would continue until he either died or pretended to off himself.

And just like the population walking around him, Seb followed commands to get into a taxi, and he followed them, being controlled.

Like an insect in a terrarium.


End file.
